Blessings of the Sun
by icings
Summary: He's her warmth. (And she's his light). Pure CS fluff, after the ice cave.


**Blessings of the Sun**

She loves wooly sweaters, leather jackets, scented candles, and cocoa, always cocoa. An afternoon curled up with a throw blanket and a book in front of a fireplace, that's long been her idea of perfect, not that Saviors seem to get too many of those these days.

Yes, Emma Swan has always loved warmth, going all the way back to a childhood in which she so often had to find and make her own. The comfort of it, the feeling of safety that came so easily with simply being warm, it had always soothed her.

So almost freezing to death _really_ wasn't her thing.

Almost, she decides, is the operative word, the one that needs focusing on. It didn't happen. They saved her, they got her out. They - Elsa, the new girl in whom she's immediately seen the most potential for a real friendship with since Mary Margaret, and her Dad, and Killian in all his... whatever he is to her (she doesn't know what, but it's strong, and it's powerful, and it's _real_) - they'd all worked together, and they'd found a way before the worst had happened.

Elsa had opened up her magic, reversed it long enough, and Dad had talked her through it, and Killian had pulled her out, stumbling but still on a be-line for him and his embrace.

For once in her life she didn't stop to think about what it all meant, she just took what she wanted.

She wanted to be held, and she wanted it to be him.

And so she lets herself have that.

He's hoisting her up into his arms, and she just goes with it. Because it's what she wants.

(She's freaking freezing. She can have this one thing.)

* * *

><p>He's so warm.<p>

She's still all kinds of foggy, and not quite coherent, not yet; thoughts floating through her head slowly, senses blurring together.

And what she's got, wrapped around her, leather and the sea and heat, so much heat, beautiful to her after all that cold.

For this, she knows she's alright.

Because he's got her.

And he's not letting her go. He's got her so tight, surrounded in his heat.

And it's comforting, and it's soothing, and it's everything she's ever loved about warmth.

(He's warm. So she's safe.)

(For real.)

* * *

><p>Her father seems to be intent on gathering every blanket in the loft, Henry is fumbling around to put together the perfect mug of cocoa (with cinnamon), and Killian... Killian keeps surprising her with his newfound 21st-century-man touch and getting a space heater working for her with ease.<p>

Elsa watches it all with abstract curiosity, and just a touch of fear - naturally - but she seems to trust them all. She knows they'll help her, that they won't harm her.

These are her people, her family. And they're going to be there for Elsa, because she wants them to.

God, she's got people. Taking care of her, and doing things for her, and being there.

Making her warm.

They're family, all of them. Her son, her precious boy. Her father. Her mother, home now, more than a little bewildered but immediately going into mom mode, fetching a warm washcloth and gently wiping down her face with it, even as she carries her baby brother, held safe and secure in the carrier at her chest. The mother of two children, now, and every bit as devoted to the one she didn't get to raise as she is to the one she's going to.

And Killian. Killian, who hasn't moved from her side; Killian, who's spent the last hour allowing her to use his shoulder as a pillow without the slightest hint of complaint.

No, she doesn't know what they are, but she knows he's supposed to be here too.

He's one of her people.

She seems to suddenly have a bunch.

It's everything she's ever wanted.

The thought warms her more than a half dozen blankets ever could.

* * *

><p>They start to make a life.<p>

It has dates squeezed in between chases of monsters; real dates, sit downs at restaurants with breadbaskets, and movie nights at home (he is absurdly, wonderfully delighted by _The Princess Bride_, and absurdly, wonderfully horrified by _Peter Pan_).

It has family days too, trips to the arcade with her son and her parents, Henry, Charming and Killian making for the three most competitive video game players who have ever lived. She and Snow usually sit back at the table absentmindedly working their way through greasy baskets of chilly cheese fries, while the three males curse each other lowly, trying to not let what they're saying reach a certain Savior's ears.

(Too bad for them, she has exceptional hearing).

(As does her mother, covering up the baby's ears with her hands with a wry grin, entirely intending to make her oldest child laugh).

(And oh, she does laugh).

Henry takes the championship in whatever ridiculous competition the three of them have dreamed up, beating up on Charming in the final game, and Killian hoists the boy on his shoulders and runs around the arcade with him, giving her son a victory lap, and oh, oh, oh, she's not sure she has ever heard her son laugh quite like that, and it's all because of her pirate, the pirate who's beaming, thrilled to give Henry this conquering hero moment.

(She's starting to think Killian may adore her son even more than he adores her, and thinking that has got her warm all over).

* * *

><p>They take a lot of walks around the shoreline, just the two of them. It's a comfort to him, being near the water, and his joy is a joy to her in turn.<p>

He always, without fail, regardless of how absolutely she protests, takes off his coat and drapes it around her shoulders at the first slightest hint of a shiver from her.

It's really quite selfish, he tells her. The longer he keeps her warm, the longer he gets to have this moment with her.

She always feels like she doesn't need the coat anymore after that.

The smile that plays at his lips seems to say he understands.

* * *

><p>The first time they fall into bed together, they don't fall in bed at all.<p>

There's too much want for that, too much desperation, too much _heat._

They've got her new apartment to themselves for the night, and they've made it as far as the plush rug on her living room floor, right there in front of the fireplace, and he keeps trying to pull away, making noises about lighting a fire for her to keep her warm, and no, no, no she's got plenty fire of her own right now, thank you.

(She finds a spot on his neck that he seems to like kissed enough to convince him to do whatever she tells him).

She's out of her mind, and she wants him out of his mind with her.

(She's always been willing to work for what she wants).

Passionate and insane with it, they strip each other of their clothes in a fury, and yet there's still something so gentle, so careful about the way he takes her (takes care of her), even right there on the floor.

Emma, Emma, Emma, he says.

Not 'Swan'. Not 'love'.

There in his arms, she is only Emma.

Who needs a fire. She'll be feeling this warmth for days.

* * *

><p>She finally convinces him to try cocoa with cinnamon, and watches his reaction carefully, studying his face for every slight flicker, wanting, <em>wanting <em>him to like it, wanting him to love it.

He sets the mug down on the table after taking a long sip. There's just the slightest bit of whipped cream on his nose. She doesn't want to tell him, because the longer he doesn't know, the longer she gets to see him like this.

He smiles.

And it's like everything in the world is perfect.

He can see why she likes this so much, this heated sweetness. It tastes like she feels, like coming home after a dark, gloomy day.

She's beaming as he says it, laughing and crying both, and she's become that girl.

(She loves being that girl more than she ever thought she could).

It's good that he likes it, she tells him. He had no choice in the matter, being part of her family.

His eyes go soft and his mouth falls open just the slightest bit, and there's a muscle ticking in his jaw, and she knows she's stunned him, overwhelmed him.

(Which is great, because now he can know how he makes her feel, always).

He's hers for the taking, so she takes more.

And he's still got just a bit of whipped cream on his nose, the first time Emma Swan tells Killian Jones she loves him.

* * *

><p>He doesn't say anything. Simply cups her face in his hand and leans forward and kisses her, not on the lips, but on the top of her head, and Jesus he's like the freaking <em>sun<em> for how warm he makes her.

She's probably got whipped cream in her hair now, and she doesn't give a damn.

(They love each other. She's never been warmer).

* * *

><p>They're in the forest for their walk, for once, at his insistence. She wonders why, asks him, teases him, begs him, threatens to torture it out of him (and oh does she have a bunch of fabulous ways she could do that).<p>

He finally tells her when they reach the clearing that is her favourite, where the light shines through the trees just right and it's so beautiful that _anyone_ would believe in magic here.

"We're here because you love it here," he says fondly. "The sea is mine. But the woods are yours, daughter of the Enchanted Forest."

"I like our walks on the shore," she argues, playfully.

"As do I, my love. They're the highlight of my week. But a man with reason to be nervous should accept all the help he can get. Even from the land."

She snorts. "Captain Hook gets nervous? Wonders never cease. Whatever could cause such an earth-moving event?"

He smiles, wryly, but there's a genuine fear in his eyes that has her suddenly taking this seriously just in time to watch him go down on one knee."

Her stomach flies into her throat then goes right back down and does a loop-de-loop.

(Or at least, that's what it feels like).

"What are you doing?" she chokes with a voice that does not sound like her own. (Stomachs in throats do a number on the vocal cords, turns out).

"I'd have thought you'd known," he teases, playing it impressively cool. "Our worlds are very different, but I'm told this little tradition remains the same. In your favourite place in your land, Emma, I'm asking a fair maiden to marry me."

She cannot believe this is happening.

"What do you want to marry me for?" she hears herself ask.

Surprisingly, the question doesn't throw him off, not nearly as much as it does her, anyway. His answer comes smoothly, as if he'd planned for it all along.

"You're the sun, Emma. You're the brightness and the shine and the light in my life, a life that had been so dark and so cold for longer than you could possibly imagine. You made that better. You, and Henry, and your family, your family that welcomed me in and made me feel part of it. Part of something, remember? Something that matters. You did that for me. You made life matter again. You lit it up. And with your permission, I'd really like to have that everyday for the rest of my life. I'd like to be with my sun forever.

(Oh damn it, she's pretty sure she's crying now).

"How can I be that to you?" she demands, rushing forward, kneeling down so they can be at the same level, wrapping her arms around him, kissing him furiously. "How can I possibly be your sun, when you're _mine_? You bring the warmth, Killian. I haven't been cold in so long. I've been so, so warm. You're the sun here, not me."

He leans his forehead against hers, grinning. "I know this is all relatively new to you, darling, but I'm quite certain that's how relationships work. Two people each being what the other needs. We can be each other's sun. I'm quite sure that's allowed, in these circumstances. We're not planets, Emma. We're people. Flawed people who found something in each other that fixed what was broken. We can use all the sun we can get, I think."

"Okay," she agrees, kind of laughing through tears. "Yeah."

"So," he says, adopting a faux casual air, as if commenting on the weather, making her laugh. "Will you marry me?"

She's so warm.

(That's what sells it).

She's actually beaming. "What did I just say?"

He's stuck on it for a moment, thinking, before the most beautiful kind of wonder and joy lights up the entirety of his expression.

(He is _so_ the sun).

"You said 'okay,'" he says, with no small amount of amazement. "You said 'yeah.'"

"I think I kinda wanna marry you," she whispers. "Even if you don't know an acceptance when you hear it."

"A man can always use extra confirmation," he teases, linking their fingers, pulling them both up to their feet. "Especially from you."

"Oh, well then," she sighs, before jumping up, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, kissing him. "Yes," she says into his lips. "Yes," she murmurs into his neck. "Yes," she hums, nipping his his ear. "Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes."

(She'll tell him forever).

* * *

><p>(They get married on the warmest, brightest autumn day in years, on the coastline where the forest meets the sea).<p>

(It's perfect).

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note: The incredible response to 'The Here and Now' was one of the most surprising, amazing things that's ever happened to me. I figured I owed you guys some more Captain Swan just for that. <strong>_

_**Enjoy quite possibly the fluffiest thing I've ever written (and I write a lot of fluff). **_

_**Thanks, as always, for reading. **_


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